* * *
To Friends and Former Glories
* * *
Atlantis was lovely, this time of year.
Islington took Aziraphale to a little place it knew, where they were served luminous wine in tiny, exquisite glasses. It talked about its plans, and Aziraphale's smile was long-forgotten warmth.
It spoke of better things, and touched Aziraphale's hand. Aziraphale drew back.
"I don't think so," he said.
"I see," said Islington. "You would rather consort with that -- abomination--"
It choked on its fury. Aziraphale looked painfully embarrassed, and very angry.
"Don't be so silly," he said crisply. He walked away.
Islington's glass shattered in its hand, and sunlight spilled through its fingers.
* * *
Crowley was staring at the map of the Underground when Aziraphale emerged.
"I'm here on business," said Crowley, before Aziraphale could say anything.
"So am I," said Aziraphale. He put his hands in his pockets, as if he were cold, and they were silent for a while.
"Because we were friends once," Aziraphale said eventually, although Crowley hadn't asked. "And he's -- lonely."
"He's a weirdo."
Crowley opened his mouth to ask whose fault that was, but then he looked into Aziraphale's eyes.
"Come on," he said instead. "I'll buy you a drink."